


Feet In The Air, Head On The Ground

by Jenwryn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Explicit Language, Genderfuck, M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clang of a bell in the distance, deep toll like the waking of a witch in a child's book, but this is no child's book, this is no child's world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feet In The Air, Head On The Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sickletongue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sickletongue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Feet In The Air, Head On The Ground [Fanart]](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5044) by visualcomplex (sickletongue). 



> **Warning:** [a] uses a Bad Word which most people loathe (I used to, but now I hear it in Emilia Fox's voice about 70% of the time and go predictably weak as a result; damn), [b] possibly references the actualfax published tentacle porn I may or may not have read the other evening, [c] probably only makes sense with the fanart that spawned it, [d] I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT MEAAAAAANS~, [e] balls to grammar. :3
> 
>  **A/N:** You really probably need to look at the [fanart](http://sickletongue.livejournal.com/178271.html) first. I cannot say that enough. It is to blame for EVERYTHING. ♥

She sits at the desk, her skirt rucked up. He can see the pale of her thighs. She's doing it on purpose, he knows that she is. He. She. _Eames_. Fucking Eames. No missing him now, no mistaking. Clang of a bell in the distance, deep toll like the waking of a witch in a child's book, but this is no child's book, this is no child's world and, while the shelves are as tight as hand-sown pines, the information desk, the desk she's ruling, is pooled in light as indolent as Eames's wrist against the counter. She sways it, the wrist; Eames sways it, lazy and lewd in the space where a keyboard should be.

The monitor hums pearl-blue against her cleavage, tips into shadows below.

“Eames,” Arthur says, but he should know better, because pale suckers are creeping across the nearest shelf and today has not been his day. Arthur steps to the right, keeps out of reach, doesn't think about the short story he'd read that one time, girl in a rock pool with a tentacle inside her, and fits an arrow to his bow. Not his day, no, but an arrow kind of day.

Or a shotgun kind of day, it would seem, as his gaze floats back to the information desk, back to Eames; back to where long, bare legs swing to the ground, flash of cunt as she goes, and wouldn't Arthur's granny cringe at the word in his head, flash of it, though, all lies and promises and movie references Arthur hasn't even seen, and then Eames is hoisting a weapon from beneath the counter, is resting a doubelbarrel against his hip.

Too many colours in this world, too many shapes that won't stay fixed, but Arthur can see that hip with perfect vision. The cant of it. The challenge. The whisper. The way that the gun kicks back against it as Eames fires, stills, fires again. Arthur can imagine the bruise without even seeing it, the flush of it, the bloom, can taste it on the flat of his tongue.

Peach-shaded suckers at Arthur's shoulders. Squares his back against Heinlein and draws his elbow towards L'Engle. Scream of rose and crimson, dusty thump of paperbacks to his feet, to his feet with the pound of flesh that comes from the nearest arm of the thing (a chainsaw day, apparently, to cut it clean away like projectiles would not, and isn't that twisted). Tipping and tiles and shelves left-of-centre. Eames, flash of skin swathed in richer cloth now, richer cut; flash of thighs stronger, bolder; scent of spent shells, of real, of unreal, of the Eames he knows from everywhere possible.

“Eames,” again, deeper tone now. Outside, buildings tumbling. Inside, Asimov falling to bed with Atwood. Inside, stomach clenching and knowing, holding and confessing. Creature cringing aside, chainsaw, arrows, bow. Nothing but a smirk, but a nod, but a pursing of those lips; hips on hips and _whine_. Fist to tie, knuckles to neck, moan to moan, “You're mad, you know that you're mad?”

Kiss laughing, world undoing, and hot pulse of more than waking, of more than ever waking.


End file.
